I like the lace curtains, they outline chrysanthemums, curling up in white-threaded bloom, while just behind, the snow clumps and falls to the hard ground with inaudible thumps.

The heater belches. Thump.

The electricity flicks off. Thump.

I sit and glue my eyes to the screen off a new landscape, icy, discoloring my view into something unfamiliar. Thump.

I want to scratch nails at the heavy oak table. Thump. I pull at the metal blue lamp. Thump. I push at the blackened bookshelf, away from the door. Thump. I sit back down, out of breath. Thump. I lay down, and try to sleep.

But it still stings, and the thumps keep falling. Inaudible now, just like the snow, never listens.


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